“Mend my manners!” exclaimed his opponent, with a bitter sneer,—“you to mend them! out wid your budget and your hammer, then; you're the very tinker of good manners—bekase for one dacency you'd mend, you'd spoil twenty.”
“I'm able to hammer you at all events, or, for that matther, any one of your illiterate gineration. Sure it's well known that you can't tach Voshther (Voster) widout the Kay.”
“Hould there, if you plase,” exclaimed one of his opponent's relations; “don't lug in his family; that's known to be somewhat afore your own, I bleeve. There's no Informers among them, Misther Costigan: keep at home, masther, if you plase.”
“At home! That's more than some o' your own cleavings (* distant relations) have been able to do,” rejoined Costigan, alluding to one of the young fellow's acquaintances who had been transported.
“Do you mane to put an affront upon me?” said the other.
“Since the barrhad (* cap) fits you, wear it,” replied Costigan.
“Very right, masther, make him a present of it,” exclaimed one of Costigan's distant relations; “he desarves that, an' more if he'd get it.”
“Do I?” said the other; “an' what have you to say on the head of it, Bartle?”
“Why, not much,” answered Bartle, “only that you ought to've left it betune them; an' that I'll back Misther Costigan agin any rascal that 'ud say there was ever a dhrop of his blood in an Informer's veins.”
“I say it for one,” replied the other.